Geronimo
by Oscar the Corsair
Summary: The story of a confused freshman and his reservation high school's marching band.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The August sun reigned on the plains of northern New Mexico, tormenting the denizens of the small towns that peppered the barren North American savanna. Only the roughest of flora and fauna were alive; the antelope and the juniper, the jack rabbits and the sage brush. The towns themselves resembled their surroundings; well-worn Chevrolet and Ford pickups dominated the dirt roads in and among them, the buildings were stout and painted bland colors, and the people themselves dressed plainly and lived practically. Some wore flannel shirts, belt buckles and cowboy hats; others, shorts and black Warrior Wear t-shirts.

One such town was the whistle stop of Geronimo. A small inholding on the Jicarilla Apache reservation, it was the only thing between US route 550 and the reservation's main town, Dulce, an hour to the north. Along the main road through town were two gas stations and a pizza parlor, the only commerce around and the primary gathering point for almost anything in that area of the reservation. Behind them were dirt streets with rundown homes lining them, double-wides and modulars more common than place-built houses.

Outside the town limits, dirt roads snaked with the terrain, leading back to ranches owned by fourth- and fifth- generation residents of the little town. Pastures surrounded them, grazed by Herford and Angus cattle, a few hundred head to each ranch. Above them, the relatively rich lived in two-stories houses on a ridge, called Blue Ridge by the locals for no apparent reason, but even they forwent expensive Lincoln and BMW sedans in favor of Audis and Volvos that were better able to traverse the dirt roads leading to their residences.

And, finally, on a slight rise north of town, two blue cinder block buildings stood proudly along the road, one after the other. The larger of the two was a U-shaped building, with a catwalk connecting the arms and parking lots on two sides. Next to it was a stadium, and a field painted for high school football, with the words "Geronimo Titans" in the end zones, wrapped in a brand-new rubber track. The stands had room for twice the student body, and usually filled up on Friday nights in the fall.


	2. Chapter One: Back in Black

**Chapter One: Back In Black**

_A/N: This is a story that's been in my head for a while. It's anomalous among marching band stories for a good deal of reasons: the protagonist is male, an athlete (football player no less), and an underclassmen and the band in question is small and new. This story is more a story about life in the rural Southwest through the mouthpiece of Tobias Gerlach's marching band experience, but it wouldn't be the same without the band piece, so I put it here. That previous "chapter" was just setting the stage, because the setting here is much more important than in most band stories. I apologize for not using horizontal lines in the original of this chapter._

Tobias stretched his long, bronzed arms straight up, linking his fingers. His day thus far had been brutal; a two-hour football practice before dawn, then home to farm chores, breakfast and a half-hour nap before having to get back up and ride to school in his father's Jeep Comanche for band camp at nine O'clock. Now it was eleven-thirty, the sun was high in the sky, and Tobias was sore, tired and dehydrated. Another half-hour, though, and he would be on his way to air-conditioning, food and getting to sit down.

In front of the band on the practice field they'd painted in the grass between the arms of the "U" that was the high school, their drum major, a lean Apache in aviator shades and a muscle shirt, conducted the imaginary music that the two-dozen of them were marching to, standing on the running board of his lifted GMC Sierra. It was a good podium, albeit strange, and it made a good place to sit during the breaks.

"All right," said the drum major, "We are well ahead of schedule; that last set was scheduled for first thing tomorrow. Doctor Ramirez told me that if we were doing well, to call him and he would assess our work, and possibly let us go early. Should I call him?"  
The band gave a chorus of affirmatives, and so the Native pulled out a rugged candybar cell phone and hit a speed dial.

"Yeah, we've got it. Seeya."

No sooner had he hung up than a dark-skinned, black-haired man of probably forty-five, with small rimmed glasses and a pony tail, stepped out of the building. He wore a Hawaiian shirt, and ratty blue jeans, which, unbeknownst to Tobias, could not have been further from his normal attire.

"Nathan," said the man to the drum major, "Can I climb on your cab real quick?"  
"My what?" asked the drum major, confused.

"The cab of your truck. I need to stand on it for a second."  
"G-go for it, I guess," Nathan allowed, curling his lower lip, interested. The man removed his glasses and placed his palms on the tailgate of the truck, which was at about his neck, and pulled himself up in a show of strength wholly remarkable for a man his age, then set down a foot and climbed all the way into the bed. The band watched, flummoxed, as he then climbed onto the cab, which was less of a challenge, and leaped to the roof of the building from it.

"I knew there was a use for that stupid truck of yours," said the director, looking down at Nathan, "Now, show me what you've done. I prefer to see things from above, as the judges will."

With a sideways glance over his shoulder, Nathan got back onto the running board and started the song. The students moved in and out of their sets fluidly, with Dr. Ramirez nodding at intervals, until they reached the end of what they'd learned, when he began applauding them.

"Good work," he said, "It is now eleven forty-five by my watch; you have until one O'clock." He squatted down and placed a hand on the surface of the roof, then swung down so that he was holding onto it, and let go, absorbing the momentum with his knees and standing up. It was only then that he noticed the looks on the faces of most of his pupils. "Go," he said, surprised, waving his hand dismissively. The students all paused, and then made a beeline for either Nathan's truck, or the parking lot.

Tobias sprinted for the truck, climbing on a forty-inch tire and pulling himself into the bed. In the cab, Nathan started the engine, sending a massive diesel rumble through the dual exhaust pipes. Adjacent to Tobias, another hitchhiker hoisted himself in just as the truck started backing up. Tobias knew him from football; he was a sophomore, the team's center, short, burly kid named Kenny.  
"He did a lot with this thing over the summer," Kenny remarked to Tobias, looking up and down the bed, "It didn't used to look like this."  
"It makes a good podium," said Tobias, grinning.

"Yeah, and a decent stepladder to boot. I was wondering why Nathan was conducting from his truck, but I guess that explains it."

The truck swung out of the parking lot, shocks absorbing the impact as they hit the highway into town. Behind them, a second car sped along, a black Audi TT roadster with the top down, loaded with five girls. Tobias wondered who the driver was; not many in Geronimo could afford such a car.

They pulled into the dirt lot of the local pizza joint, with the Audi behind them, and Nathan parked. The lot wasn't full, but there were a few trucks here and there, one of them being the owner's rig. A half-dozen kids piled in from the truck along with the handful from the car, and immediately sat down. Tobias found himself across from the band's only sousaphone, a small kid he'd never seen until that morning, and next to Kenny.

"Two larges all right with you guys?" asked Kenny.

Tobias and the sousa nodded their agreement.  
"Good. I want sausage; what do you want?"  
"Sausage is good by me," said Tobias.  
"Ditto," added the tuba.

Kenny leaned back in his chair and turned to look at the kitchen.  
"Yo, Keith, my hombre," he shouted in a false but well-imitated Cholo accent, "You got to get our order, man, 'less you not gonna have no job, and you can't buy no rims if you got no job."  
A white kid, about Kenny's build, stepped out of the kitchen, and responded in the same accent, "'ey, fuck you, hombre. You think you the only customer I got up in this place, man? I gon' kill you, soon's my shift's done."  
"Man, bring it," said Kenny, "I take you to school, motherfucker!"  
"Hey, Keith," said Tobias, "You seen my brother?"  
Keith dropped his accent. "No—wait, who's your brother?"  
"Duane san Clemente."  
"Like that fast fucking midget on the football team Duane san Clemente?"  
"Yeah, him."  
"How's that work? He's, like, red, and you're, like, white."  
"He's my half-brother. Have you seen him?"  
"Nah. Why?"

"He was apparently going to jack my car and drive around in it. If you see him, kick his ass."  
"I'm not going to beat up the only other receiver we've got that's any good. You can do it." He ducked back into the kitchen and came out with a waiter's notepad.

"You're Duane's brother?" asked the kid across from him.

"Yeah. You know him?"  
"He's in my grade."  
"You're an eighth grader?"  
"Yeah."

Duane was a small-built running machine of an eighth grader, Tobias's half-brother by his mother whom his father had adopted the previous year. He was almost fifteen, and thus old enough to be allowed to play for the high school in football, which he did with aplomb, tearing holes in even the varsity defense. In a fashion, Tobias was glad they were in different positions, him at quarterback on offense and linebacker on defense, and Duane at receiver and secondary.

* * *

Tobias took off his shirt and traded it for a short-sleeved Underarmor garment. Sitting down on the bench in front of his locker, he dug out his pads and started to assemble them on his person. Click-clack; the sound made him chuckle. Around the locker room, his forty or so teammates were doing the same. He glanced at each face in turn, and something hit him. No Duane.

"Yo, Jota!" he yelled at a lean Latino tying his cleats.

"What up?" The Latino looked up at Tobias from his shoes.

"What did you do with my brother?"  
"I think he was on the field with Keith, last I checked."  
"Fuckin' overachiever. Makin' me look bad."  
"If you weren't such a band geek, you wouldn't have that problem."  
As if on cue, two boys came into the locker room, clad in pads from the waist down but with their shoulders unprotected. One was Keith from the pizza parlor; the other was a small, lithe Apache, and Tobias's brother. Neither of them were used to that descriptor yet; both had been only children, albeit under different circumstances, until the fateful day in court when Tobias's father had won custody of both of them, and they had become brothers. Tobias had once delighted in being the only child; now, he had to share everything. Not that he minded; it was less chores around the ranch, someone to play Madden with, someone to torture when he was bored, but neither could get used to the idea that it was a permanent arrangement. Duane still called Tobias's father Mr. Gerlach, and their relationship was awkward at best. Luckily, Duane was smart enough to be grateful for what he had been given, a chance at a decent life, and not to bite the hand that fed him.

"Get into your shoulder pads, boys," said the coach, as he sat at his desk in front of an outdated Compaq, pecking away. The building of the new school had tapped out the budget for the last decade, and so the administration had gotten creative with the technology, receiving donations from various other high schools, Bureau of Indian Affairs offices, and New Mexico Plains University, stripping them, and installing open-source software to save disk space, RAM and maintenance costs. It worked pretty well, except for in Dr. Ramirez's case, because his composition software didn't run very well on Linux.

By the time Keith and Duane were fully suited up, the coach stood to address the team.

"All right," he said, "Good to see so many of you out for football this year. Most of you I know from our summer practices; for those of you who couldn't make it, welcome. I'm going to send around some introductions, but first, your captains. There's four, one for each class: for the seniors, we have our nose guard, Lawrence Gorman. We call him Lawdog." A three-hundred-pound Native raised his eyebrows. "Juniors, you get Juanito Iglesias, quarterback and free safety. Lucky you." The Latino that Tobias had spoken to earlier threw his hands straight up and there was a brief round of applause. "Sophomores, you get Kenny Andasola, our center. Last year, our starting center decided to tear his MCL in the second quarter of the first game; I told Kenny to line up at center and he's been there since. Finally, freshman, and Duane, I give you Tobias, linebacker and potential quarterback." More applause for the two underclassmen, and then the coach started up again. "We've got forty-two of you playing this year; ten seniors, twelve juniors, twelve sophomores, seven freshmen and an eighth grader. A lot of coaches would say that isn't even enough to play, but I came here from Dove Creek, where we played eight-man football, so forty-two doesn't sound so bad."

When the team finished with the field, it was all ready dark, and their coach had turned on the lights. Tobias removed his helmet and walked up the hill next to Kenny.

"Where are the band now, do you suppose?"

"Right there," replied Kenny, pointing at a line of silhouettes moving towards the field.  
"Son of a bitch," cursed Tobias, "How are we supposed to eat?"  
"After rehearsal," said Kenny tiredly.

The two musicians were the first ones in and out of the locker room, bolting down the hallway, past the underclassmen commons at the elbow of the "U" and into the band room. Sitting against a chair, assembled, was Kenny's trombone, and on the seat was Tobias's mello.

"Somebody must be in love with you, Tobias," said Kenny, "Because they would never do that for me." Disregarding his teammate's attitude, Tobias grabbed his horn and bolted out the door, past the practice field, through the parking lot and back down the hill he'd just run up.

"You look winded," said Nathan from his podium as the two of them arrived at their spots in the opener, "What did you do, join the football team on us?"

Tobias snickered, but Kenny summed up his response with one finger.


	3. Chapter Two: Cruel to your School

_A/N: I feel like this is my first "real" chapter. The previous one was a dash-off to get through band camp, since I was all ready done with it and unwilling to relive it in my head. Hopefully I'm not introducing my characters too suddenly. Reviews are, of course, appreciated, and I'd especially like to know your favorite characters. I don't really have one; all of these are composites of people, real and imagined, that I really do adore._

Tobias shot out of the DMV like a rocket, unable to contain his joy. Fifteen and a half, finally, and in his hand was a probationary license. No driving after dark, no driving with other people in the car—like the Rez cops cared. All they fiddled with was whether he had a license, and whether he was sober, the second one more than the first. Not only that, but he knew half of them and the other half knew who he was through the first half. Geronimo was a small town, and small town cops were usually pretty good about that stuff.

In the parking lot was a Volkswagen Scirocco that Tobias had bought from the proceeds of his most recent show steer. All ready he'd been working on it; aftermarket wheels, and intake and a stereo thus far, but there was a lot more on the way, or so he said. With football after school and band before, he wasn't sure where the time was going to come from. Still, time wasn't an issue now, because he had his license.

Tobias's father had ingeniously agreed to tow the VW into Farmington for Tobias to get his license. Granted, Tobias had been driving around the property and to and from town since he was ten, but driving to the DMV for the express purpose of getting his license was a little too brash for his or his father's liking. Tobias got into the hatchback and drove off, Duane and his father in the Comanche behind him.

* * *

Zero hour, first day. Carl looked up and down his drum line, the eight of them, with interest. Two snares, one freshman, one sophomore, both of whom had marched for him last year; one tenor, him; and five bass drums, all of them eighth graders, none of them having been at band camp. Great. Not only was the best drummer the band had up on the podium, but his entire bass line were newbies. Carl's face still lit up, though, as he recalled the image of Nathan in his football jersey, wriggling out of his shoulder pads and into his harness, while the band marked time in wait. His being drum major had confused a lot of people, and left not only his coach, but Carl as well, in the lurch.

"All right," he said, "I know you bass drummers from last year's parade, but I'm a little fuzzy on names. You first." The drummers named themselves, and then Carl lined the five of them up by size. Five was a good number, even if they were rookies. It meant a full set of tonals, which gave him freedom to do all sorts of stuff with traveling cadences he couldn't otherwise. Assuming they figured it out in time. They would; he wasn't going to let them be the Achille's heel of the band. It wasn't going to happen. "You," he said to the tallest, "Go get the number five. You, four, you, three, two, one." He pointed at each drummer in turn, and watched them suit up before motioning for his snares to do the same. They could get into their drums, too; good for them.

Against a wall were a row of garment bags, all of them with blue and gold Geronimo uniforms hanging proudly. Carl found his easily; two chords, one on each shoulder, and his stomach turned. He was drum captain this year; last year's had graduated and his immediate successor was on the podium. The band was too small for individual sections; there were four clarinets, and they had the most of any instrument, so they broke up by instrument _type_. There were four captains: Carl, the drum captain; Lisa, Nathan's girlfriend, the wind captain; Malcolm Smith, who'd marched soprano with the Academy Drum and Bugle Corps that summer, the horn captain; and—he shuddered. The guard captain was Christine, a timid freshman, the only returnee to the color guard. There had been three of them last year; a senior, a junior and Christine, and the junior had quit after a falling-out with the coach. The tenor drummer had nothing but love for Christine, she was a great girl, especially for a freshman, but she was so quiet that he barely noticed her.

Rather than fuss about the guard girls, though, Carl turned to his own section.

"So, we're going to warm up and then go out there and join the band. We do a traveling bass warm-up, quarters, eighths, triplets, sixteenths, and later we'll do some quintuplets and thirty-seconds. We did some traveling in Farmington last year; you guys know what I'm talking about?" The middle school band, starting the previous year, marched with the high school in the Labor Day Parade in Farmington, the nearest sizable town to Geronimo. The middle school drummers worked with Carl, Nathan and the previous captain, Chris, for a week beforehand to get the cadences down, and Carl was now relying on that work to get them through this season. "Let's do this. A-one, a-two, a-one, two, ready, and."

The notes came. As Carl hit each of his five drums, the basses followed him. Good. They might just survive.

* * *

Christine drummed her fingers against her thigh impatiently, watching the color guard file past. They didn't actually have auditions for getting into the guard, but the coach had asked her to audition them for placement. There were more this year than last year; that was good, at least, but last year, they had been at band camp and now they weren't. Still, she watched the rookies take their places at the edge of the parking lot. She had inadvertently set it up such that they could see the band, which was a mistake, but what the hell, they would have to focus during the show, too.

"Okay, you first."

* * *

Kenny had his head straight forward as he marched the first set of their opener, but his eyes were elsewhere, across the parking lot, where Christine was drilling the guard-to-be. She paced up and down like a drill sergeant, but her voice was soft and understanding. Poor girl; she had no business in front of them. She was a lowly eighth grader the previous year, the girl who carried the extra flags and sat in the front seat of the band bus, behind Dr. Ramirez, but a cruel trick of fate had left her as captain. Kenny's gaze wasn't entirely sympathetic, though; his eyes feasted as she instructed the first girl to do her best toss. Then, suddenly, he stumbled.

* * *

"Son of a bitch!"

Christine whipped around to see Kenny standing like an idiot, impressed, and Nathan looking ready to kill him.  
"What, Kenny, what is it?" asked Nathan, his voice full of repressed anger.

"Chick just threw a six."

"A what?"

"A six? Really?" Malcolm was suddenly interested. "Shit, I know DCI girls that can't throw a six."

"That's because the Hussars suck," said Kenny, "And have ridiculous tan lines."  
"Oh, shut up."

Kenny led the band in applause, and Christine and the girl who'd made the throw both flushed.

"Who the hell is that?" asked Tobias from his spot.

"Dunno," said Nathan, "New girl, hella good with flags."  
"Good at volleyball, too," added Lisa, "Varsity, as a sophomore."

* * *

The guard set their flags down and went for cool down stretches as Kenny stepped out of the band room. Shit. He felt like a pervert all ready.

"You guys need help?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow, pretending not to notice the four physically fit girls bending over.

"Sure," said Christine, "Grab that bundle of flags."

Kenny walked to where she had indicated and grabbed the flags. They were heavier than he'd thought, but that was good; his muscles rippled as he hoisted them.

"Inside?" he asked, hoping Christine would notice his strength. Then again, he thought, she probably did this every day last year. Fail.

"Yeah, outside the percussion closet. We'll put them away."  
"I can do it."  
"No you can't. Thanks, though."  
"No problem."

Though he was disappointed for not getting more out of the exchange, he set the flags down and shrugged off his annoyance, figuring small things would stand almost as well in his stead as big ones, granted he did them constantly. Like opening doors for the colorguard as they came in—he sprinted to beat Tobias.

Amazingly, the rough-and-tumble Reservation boy's intentions were purer than the those of the hardworking Caucasian farm boy. As soon as Christine came through the opened door, Tobias bolted for her. Before he knew it, Kenny had a beautiful girl at his feet, with a six-four white boy on top of her. He took a step back, assessing the situation before making a moron of himself. Tobias? With Christine? What the fuck was with that? He'd told Kenny he was single, had been since the day he was born.

"Ow, shit," said Christine, getting up, "You got bigger. That hurts more than it used to."

Used to? Were they some kind of item? He decided to play it for humor.

"Uh, if you don't mind, what the hell was that?"

It worked. Christine laughed. "Awkward," said Tobias, "That's what that was. She, uh, played football last year. That happened a lot."  
"Uh, yeah," said Christine, less embarrassed than Tobias. Kenny grinned inwardly; he had an ace up his sleeve. Or maybe the deuce of clubs, and his hand was all spades; there was only one way to find out.

"What position?"

There was absolutely nothing peculiar about the question; had she been a guy, it would have been routine, but she was a girl, and the fact that that was his first question showed he had an open mind. Or so he hoped.

"Uh, wideout," she said, "I was punt returner until Duane showed up."  
"Did you play D?" Geronimo was so small that almost everyone played both sides.

"No," replied Christine with no discernible emotion, "I, uh, didn't have the balls to tackle anyone. No pun intended."

Damn, she was hard to read. Maybe he would ask Tobias. Still, the question didn't offend her, and that was probably better than the alternative. Great, now he sounded like Nathan.

* * *

Nathan was waiting in his truck when the New Mexico National Guard armory's doors swung open and out came fifteen or so kids in camo, or BDUs, as he girlfriend called them. Except she wasn't his girlfriend now, she was Cadet Chief Master Sergeant Downing, or Chief as the cadets called her. Were her relationships with her cadets of any sort other than what they were, he would have envied their closeness, almost enough to call her on it, but her love for them was strange and definitely not romantic—platonic was probably closer. She was either so impersonal as to be personal or so personal as to be impersonal; she called every cadet by his last name, and made them repeat themselves three times, louder each time, because she "couldn't hear them", and yet she knew when each of them was scheduled to promote, what sports each did, why each of them were cadets, and more. If they saw her at the mall, she would smile at them and be very Lisa-like, but they would still come to attention when she addressed them. He pounded his head into the steering wheel; he was afraid of his own girlfriend.

Except that wasn't it. He knew Lisa inside and out, knew what made her tick, could figure out why she was crying without being told—it was Chief Downing he was afraid of, her evil split personality. Chief reminded Nathan more of his father than of anybody; she was authoritative, pushy, even bossy at times, and yet totally logical about everything. Outside of the squadron, and a few neighboring ones, he was the only one who even knew of Chief's existence; he'd seen the persona one other time, when a now-sophomore flautist had refused to listen to Lisa the previous year because she hadn't been an upperclassmen, and the flautist had been reduced to tears and ran to be comforted by the drum major, with whom she was in love.

Fifteen minutes after the last cadet left, Chief stepped out. He could tell it was Chief by how she held her shoulders straight up and surveyed the parking lot, fixing her gaze on the Sierra. Nathan gulped, hoping he hadn't caught her in a bad mood. He'd only seen Chief mad that one time, and he didn't want to repeat the experience, especially not with him as the victim. Chief made for the car, and being drum major, Nathan picked up that she was walking in perfect cadence, one hundred twenty beats per minute. He could almost hear the "leyup, leyup, yo right, yo right," as she marched forward. She halted—not stopped, halted—at his door, and he opened it, looking down on her in her perfectly-pressed dress shirt and skirt.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"Thought you might want some ice cream, since you made the drive out here."  
"Good thinking," she said, "But no PDA."  
"Roger."

She went around the hood, and she did so, he could see Chief become Lisa, and wondered how aware they were of each other.

"Hey, baby," he said as she climbed into his truck, settling into the racing seat he'd just invested in. The back seats were all ready gone, replaced by the custom sub enclosure he'd built in metal shop the previous year.

"Hey, Nathan," she said. She was no longer Chief but she was still in uniform; otherwise, she wouldn't have used his name. "Thanks for getting me. I'm a little stressed right now."  
"I'm seeing that," he agreed, "Do you ever make your cadets cry?"  
Her answer was as serious as his question. "I don't know," she said, "None of them would ever cry in front of me."

"Those kids worship you, babe."  
"I know it, too." The truck had started to pull out by now. "That's what worries me. Power corrupts, and they've given me a lot of power. I tell them to jump, they ask how high and then want to know how well they did it. They listen to me over the Major."

The Major was a tall, imposing man, a retired Air Force pilot who Lisa had insisted that Nathan meet before they started dating. The Major had inspected Nathan as a father might, telling Lisa that he looked good, clean-shaved, and like he could do her a world of good. Nathan had called him "sir" and explained that gas and time precluded him from joining his organization, which the Major had met with a grudging nod. In truth, he wished he had joined, but he would be turning nineteen before too long and that would not allow him to be a cadet, meaning he would have to be a senior member, meaning he would outrank Chief, and simply put, that would be bad.

"How was it?" he asked.

"Oh, it was good," she said, "Color guard are as good as I've seen them, and there was a helluva turnout." Nathan had learned long since the difference between the Civil Air Patrol's color guards and the band's color guard. Big difference, big mistake not to learn it sooner.

"So why are you stressed?"  
"I'm doing great commanding the squadron now," she said, "It's Kirtland I'm worried about."  
Kirtland. He hated that word. It meant the winter Encampment, when she would be gone for a week and would come back exhausted and wanting to do nothing but sleep, precluding their ability to do anything until New Year's, at which point her father would not allow Nathan out of his sight. Not only was it robbing him of his girlfriend over winter break, though, it was also driving her out of her mind now. He was deathly afraid of her snapping at any moment, and so spent a disproportionate amount of time with the woodwinds, which was then construed as him neglecting the band for his girlfriend. There was no good way out of this; stupid, stupid Kirtland.

"I mean," continued Lisa, "I can command these kids because, as you say, they worship me. What about kids who've never met me? Who will likely hate my guts two hours after they report? What about them?"

"Don't know," said Nathan truthfully, "The trick is to be their friend when they expect it least. You see me do it with the band; maybe you can try it."  
"Maybe."

The truck pulled into the Animas Valley Mall, which was nearly closed. Nathan parked close to the entrance to the food court, and walked in.

"Hey, guys!" yelled a person at a table as soon as they walked it. Wouldn't Nathan have known; it was Juan, eating ice cream. The mall was dark, silhouetting him against the blackness. The couple moved towards him and sat down.  
"What are you doing here?" asked Nathan.  
"Getting my last pay check," said Juan, motioning at the Baskin-Robbins"This is the first Friday I've had free since May."  
"And the last one you'll have until basketball season," added Lisa, "Can we get some ice cream from your, uh, former employer?"  
"Sure," said Juan, then, towards the shop, "Get these people some ice cream!"

Nathan reached for Lisa's hand and then remembered she was in uniform, so they went up to the counter separated. It felt weird, but somehow good; he was respecting her. Of course, he still wouldn't let her pay.  
"Two scoops," he said, "Rocky road, and vanilla bean. She wants bubblegum and rainbow sherbet."  
"What?" asked Lisa, "I haven't had rainbow sherbet in years! Why'd you order it?

"Because I knew you would want it." He winked, and she punched his arm.

At his table, Juan shook his head. There had been a time when he would have been jealous of Nathan, but now, he was just happy for them.


	4. Chapter Three: Diamond in the Rough

**Chapter Three: Diamond in the Rough**

_A/N: Hooray for my first review! Just to clarify before you read this, Tobias is a football player and a band member—he marches at halftime, along with Kenny, and plays in the game. It's not uncommon out where the story takes place. The lyrics at the beginning are from the song "Diamond in the Rough" by Airbourne and all credit goes to them; likewise, AC/DC own "Back in Black" and "Hell's Bells"; Run D.M.C. and/or Aerosmith own "Walk this Way"; and Twisted Sister owns "I Wanna Rock."_

_The following is an entirely fictional account; any similarities to people living or dead is entirely coincidental. However, Bayfield, Dove Creek, Farmington and Dulce are real towns, Piedra Vista is a real high school, and any schools I may mention are real, except for Geronimo and New Mexico Plains University._

* * *

"_I had a dollar in my pocket_

_And dirt on my hands_

_She was a rich man's daughter_

_Who didn't give a damn_

_She had all the boys talkin'_

_With her fancy cat walkin'_

_But it was me who took her home_

_And gave her bed a good rockin'."_

"Great music for a volleyball game," Tobias remarked as the varsity team took the court to warm-up. Of ten girls, he recognized two—Lisa and Martina, the color guard girl. Both were starters, and Lisa was serving.

"Yeah, no joke," agreed Keith behind him. The entire football team had gathered on the home end of the bleachers, wearing their jerseys. All of them but one, that is.

"Where's Lawdog?" asked Tobias of the wide receiver.

* * *

Lawrence Gorman was big, a six-foot-five, three hundred pound slab of solid Native muscle. Everything about him typified Rez, at least superficially; he wore his hair in a long braid down to his elbows and drove a beat-up Toyota 4runner with a Native Pride sticker. On the football field, nobody opposed him; the last lineman his size was Duane's and Tobias's cousin Sam, a full-bred Samoan presently playing tackle for the University of Hawaii, who'd graduated Lawrence's freshman year; and the only people ever to break his tackles were Nathan, who'd done it freshman year, Juan and Keith, who'd done it once each by sheer momentum, and Tobias. And yet, despite all that, here he was, attending the concession stand for the Geronimo Chapter of the National Honor Society. He was doing the hot dogs and popcorn; Malcolm Smith was in charge of the cash register, and during the JV game, Lisa and Nathan had been doing drinks. Somehow, he didn't fit in.

No, fuck that, he did. He was every bit as smart as Nathan, or Malcolm, or Lisa. Well, maybe not Lisa, but even so, being an athlete and being smart were not mutually exclusive. What was worse was nobody claimed they were for anyone else; when Lisa was a starter on the volleyball and basketball teams, state champion in the hundred meters, an All-State flautist and had a 4.0, all as a sophomore, nobody was surprised, but when the name Gorman showed up on the Honor Roll, or when he'd been tapped for NHS, it was all about, "way to go, big man!" or "what the hell classes were you taking?" Maybe it was because he was a lineman; Kenny's grades kind of sucked, as did most of the rest.

Duane came sauntering in, looking cocky as all get out. Then again, Duane always looked like that. It was almost ridiculous; a short, scrawny-looking eighth grader wearing a varsity jersey and hanging out with the seniors on the football team like he was one of them. And the worst part was, he was one of them. Duane was an amazing athlete, but he took it a lot too far.

"You're NHS?" he asked, and Lawrence prepared a witty comeback, "Badass. I wish I was smart enough for honors stuff. I want that letter."

Lawrence cracked a smile; that comment reminded him of himself as an eighth grader. Middle schoolers could letter in academics, athletics and music, receiving miniature six-inch chenilles that would go along the pockets of their jacket, and most obsessed over them. Duane had a unique situation; he was in a position to receive a high school letter, a full-sized chenille, while in middle school, which would make him the first in his class.

"Yeah," said Lawrence, "But if you just want the letter, there are easier ways to do that. Band, for instance."  
Malcolm's head whipped around on instinct. He was wearing his own jacket, covered top to bottom in patches from various honor bands he'd attended in six years of playing, the Hussars and All-State.

"Excuse me?" he snapped.  
"Never mind. What can I get you, D?"  
"Uh, a Powerade and some Cheetoes."

"Can do."

* * *

In the gym, the match was heating up. The first game was over, and the second of five was beginning. They were playing Ignacio, a slightly larger school to their north in Colorado, and yet were still up. JV had won the first two games, ending the match early, and varsity were doing even better. Acting in opposition to his normal patterns, Tobias's eyes were not on the scoreboard; instead, he followed the actions of Martina, number five, the beautiful dark-haired sophomore.  
"Take a picture, it'll last longer," said Carl into Tobias's ear, having somehow arrived when he wasn't paying attention. Tobias looked embarrassed, and opened his mouth to say something. "Nah, you're fine," continued Carl, "It ain't fair, they wear that spandex, and God knows Lisa's fine. I won't tell Nathan."  
Tobias was relieved; let Carl think he was checking out Lisa.

"Who's number five?" he asked, masking his interest better than he'd been expecting to.

"Martina," said Carl, "She's some relation to Juan, though I couldn't tell you what. On the color guard."

It was then that Tobias noticed Carl's shirt.

"You don't march for PV," he said. PV referred to Piedra Vista High School in Farmington, whose drumline's shirt Carl was wearing.

"His girlfriend does," said Kenny from the seat above them.

"Eavesdropper," said Carl, "And she's not my girlfriend."  
"She just wears your band t-shirt around because-."

"Because she stole it from me," said Carl, clearly annoyed now, "What more do you want?"  
"I want you to ask her out, dousche."

"Homecoming," said Carl rhetorically, "Homecoming."

Martina spiked it over, and the crowd cheered.

"Hey," said Kenny, "Tobias. You know what became of Christine?"

"Uh, no, why?"  
"She said she would be here."  
"Knowing Christine, 'here' means somewhere between Moab and Amarillo. Don't get your hopes up."  
"Silly woman," said Kenny.

"You dig her?" asked Tobias pointedly.

"Hey, man, any girl that played football has my interest."  
"Good point. Well, she's probably in Farmington right now."

Funny, thought Tobias. First him, then Carl, then Kenny. Must be mating season.

* * *

Malcolm whipped off his shirt, grinning at his tan line. His DCI corps, the Santa Fe Hussars, wore pelisses in the style of the Hungarian hussars, that is, off one shoulder, which led to a diagonal tan line across his torso. The nature of the uniform was such that it was fortunate to be an all-male corps. That, of course, was not the uniform he was getting into; instead, he was putting on the royal blue and gold uniform of Geronimo, for dress rehearsal.

The jackets opened backwards, with the zipper along the spine of the wearer, making them awkward to put on single-handedly. Along the front was a white sash with gold trim, and the pants were royal blue with the same coloration in stripes along the side. Two stripes adorned Malcolm's shoulders; Lisa and Carl each had two as well, but Nathan's uniform was a whole different can of worms, as was Christine's and that of the guard. They looked good, did the guard, Malcolm had to admit; there were five of them, three of them never having done guard before, and four of them never having done guard in Geronimo. Martina had marched for her school in Texas, fall and winter, as a freshman, and was clearly the best of the guard.

"All right," said Ramirez, taking the podium, "Somebody want to go grab the drummers?"  
"I'll do it," volunteered James the sousaphonist, bolting for the door to the outside, where the drummers were practicing. Carl was obsessive about them, and so had called a rehearsal an hour and a half before everyone else. James leaned out the door:

"Come in!"

The drumline filed in and Ramirez began talking.

* * *

"And now, to honor America, please stand, and gentlemen remove your hats for the playing of our National Anthem." Nathan relinquished the podium to Dr. Ramirez, and the band started the Anthem. They sounded as good as they had hoped, and they left the track for their place in the stands happily.

"Now, the starting defensive lineup for the Bayfield Wolverines..." Bayfield was an agrarian town in Colorado, bigger than Geronimo but still no more than a dot on the map next to Durango. They fielded two full football teams, each bigger than Geronimo's one, but everyone in the stadium was confident it was going to be a good game.

"Geronimo fans, on your feet for your Titans' starting offensive lineup. Quarterback, number five, Juanito Iglesias! Wide receiver, number eleven, the boy wonder Duane san Clemente! Center, number ninety-nine, Kenneth Andasola. Wide receiver, number eight, Keith Johnston..."

"Give me the 'Hey' song!" yelled Ramirez, and Nathan counted off. The band broke into song as the final members of the lineup were announced.

* * *

"Adams to kick it off, san Clemente and Iglesias back to receive."

Duane looked at Juan briefly, and then back straight ahead. Bayfield's kicker threw up his arm, and the Geronimo crowd went wild for the first time since the band had entered the stadium. The ball went up, and Juan dropped under it, leaving the eighth grader to bolt down the field. He submarined a big, beefy lineman in purple and sneaked a glance past his torso to see Juan streaking down the field.

* * *

"Iglesias, wrapped up by Araujo at the forty-five yard line."

Juan came off the field, grinning like a fool and rubbing his shoulder.

"Guess what, Coach?"  
Richardson didn't even look angry.

"You stiff-armed him too hard. Get out there, Tobias." He slapped Tobias's rear and shook his head at Juan. "What did you do?"  
"I think I pulled it. A little heat will do."  
"Moron."

Tobias ran out onto the field without thinking, but once he was behind center, his paradigm came crashing in. This wasn't practice; it was a Friday night football game, and he was the quarterback. Probably for the rest of the game. Keith shot him a sympathetic look, which was the last thing Tobias needed at the time, but when he looked at the sideline, Richardson gave a knowing nod, like he did during practice.

"Keeper," said his headset, "Roll out left and run. Just like we practiced."

"Just like we practiced, Coach," muttered Tobias, even though he didn't have a mic. The offense huddled around him.

"Keeper," repeated Tobias, "I'm going to roll out left and run. Watch fifty. Break."  
"Kill!"

He lined up behind Kenny.

"Down, set, hut!"

The blitz came, and Tobias rolled out right. Lawrence hit a linebacker in an unfortunate rendezvous for the latter, and Tobias broke the pocket, sprinting forward...and met with another linebacker, only this time the blue went down and the purple was on top. Shit.

"Gerlach on the keeper, loss of one on the play."

The announcer cemented it. Tobias had failed on his first snap behind center, Geronimo's first snap of the season.

"Nice try," said Richardson, without a hint of sarcasm, "Give me number twenty-two. Look for Duane, 'cuz it looks like Keith's in double coverage."  
"Twenty-two, guys," said Tobias to the huddle, "I'm watching you, D-money. Break."

They lined up again, second and eleven, and the ball went back. Again came the blitz, but this time he picked up a better block on the right side and then...

He didn't know what he was doing until he was past the first down marker. Instinct had taken over, and his legs had moved of their own accord down the sideline to the other forty yard line. His head snapped back, and he saw no one behind him, and kept running until the forty became the thirty, became the twenty, the ten, the five, the goal line. Touchdown. The word entered his head, and for a second he didn't realize its meaning. Then the band broke into the fight song, and suddenly, he was a hero.

* * *

Christine's heart leaped out of her chest and seemed to run to Tobias as he stood all alone in the end zone. He was alone because nobody had been able to stop him as he'd run, long legs akimbo, down the field, dodging left and right. He was alone because at that moment, he was better than everyone else on that football field, or in that town.

"Touchdown Gerlach!"

The team collided on Tobias, and he was in a sort of delirious state of bliss as he paraded to his spot on the kickoff team. The kicker, a freshman like him, threw his hand up and the ball went forward.

* * *

"The Marching Titans will be performing for your halftime entertainment, a rousing tribute to the nineteen eighties rock entitled Bat out of Hell, opening with the AC/DC classic 'Back in Black', continuing with a drumline arrangement of Run-D.M.C.'s 'Walk this Way' and Chicago's '25 or 6 to 4', and finally, closing with another AC/DC song, 'Hell's Bells.' The Marching Titans are lead on the field by drum major Nathan Douglas, guard captain Christine Richards, drum captain Carlton Reeves, horn captain Malcolm Smith and woodwind captain Lisa Downing. Drum major Nathan Douglas, are you ready?"

Nathan gave a simple, understated salute.

"Then you make take the field in exhibition."

"One, two, a-one, two, three, four!"

Tobias marched forward from the first set, playing the opening guitar riff of Back in Black on his mellophone. He wouldn't have been sure, if it weren't for the bright tones of Malcolm's trumpet backing him up, but with Malcolm, he was fine. As they hit the first set, a line, Tobias glanced left to guide and encountered a problem he hadn't foreseen—his shoulder pad. Holding his horn forced his pads up and into his field of view. He could play and march in cleats and pads just fine, but seeing in them was an entirely different affair. Making an educated guess based on sound, he halted, and continued the show.

Back in Black finished well enough, and Nathan counted off Walk this Way. The bass drums hit all at the same time, pounding out the drum intro, and one of the snares ditched his drum in favor of the marimba to mimic the guitar solo at the beginning, then dropped out as Carl's solo began. It was a strange arrangement, all who were involved admitted, but somehow it worked as the five drums banged out Run Simmons's rhythm. He cut out, and the snares banged out the second verse, then the chorus, and then the next verse.

I Wanna Rock went quickly, as they had a short arrangement, and then came Hell's Bells. This was probably the scariest song of the four, simply because Nathan was on the sidelines with a guitar instead of conducting. As I Wanna Rock drew to a close, Malcolm left the field and Nathan relinquished his podium to him, picking up a guitar. Next to him, Carl had foregone his tenors for a set of concert chimes, used to emulate the church bells at the beginning of AC/DC's version.

The power of Nathan's solo was evident as the entire stadium, including the side in purple, fell silent.

* * *

"I'm lovin' it, guys," said Coach Richardson as the team gathered around him, "They're a school of four hundred, we're a school of two hundred, and they can't contain our _backup_ QB. Juan, I want you to take over at running back, and Tobias—shit, where's Tobias?"  
"Marching, sir," said Lawrence.

"That's right. Oh well; Juan, you're going to do some RB for us. Just because you stupidly threw out your shoulder doesn't mean I'm benching the team captain the second half. O line, do what you've been doing, and they won't be able to touch you. This is what I want to see all season, guys."

* * *

The team came back on the field less formally than they had initially, in a single file line. The kicker lined up, the whistle blew and the second half started. Keith wrapped up their returner at the twenty-one, and Tobias lined up at middle linebacker. The ball went back, the line went forward, and before Tobias had a chance to blitz, Kenny was on top of the quarterback.

"Jesus," he muttered.

The rest of the half went the same way; Bayfield got one touchdown and a last-second field goal, and Geronimo scored twice; once was a simple floater from Tobias to Keith and the other was a spectacular thirty-yard run off a reverse by Juan, bringing the final score to twenty-one to ten. The opposing coach, a small, squeaky man, was none to happy with his performance, but Geronimo's fans were thrilled.

Tobias retired to the locker room, showered, and stepped out in his Wranglers and football jersey to three dozen Geronimo students and random fans cheering for him. Among the crowd he spotted Juan and Martina, and approached them.

"Nice game, QB," said Juan with the same grin he'd given Tobias as he'd left the field with his shoulder.

"Man, that running back was a god. Wonder where he came from?"  
Juan smiled. "Man, I was an RB in mid school."  
"Who was QB?"  
"Uh, Nathan," said Juan after a bit of thought.

"Who do you guys play next?" interjected Martina.  
"PV," said Tobias, "On that damn turf. Should be all kinds of fun."  
"You have no idea, mi amigo," remarked Juan.

"Where's PV?" Martina asked, still confused.

"Piedra Vista," explained Juan, "The other high school in Farmington. We're playing their JV."

"We will dominate," said Tobias confidently, then, with more humility, "Assuming I'm not still at QB. How's the shoulder?"  
"It's good," said Juan, "Just a hot bath should do it. How was the show?"  
"The what?"  
"The halftime show."  
"Oh, it went really well," said Tobias. He turned to Martina. "You think so?"  
"Oh, yeah," she agreed, "Better than I expected. It's so weird, being in a small band."  
"I remember the band being huge down there," said Juan, "I went to a high school game once."  
"Are you guys related?" asked Tobias, squinting and tilting his head.

"Yeah, dude," said Juan dismissively, "She my cousin."  
"Oh, okay."


End file.
